Sad and Lovely With Bright Things In It
by guineapiggie
Summary: Budding journalist Willas Tyrell is supposed to write about Sansa Stark, lover of Prime Minister candidate Petyr Baelish, and delves deep into the incomprehensible tragedy of their past. Some people cannot be saved, and some don't even want to be. [modern AU, rated T for language]
1. Prologue

**Sad and Lovely with Bright Things In It**

 **DISCLAIMER:** No character, novel or franchise used or referenced belongs to me, no money is being made from this.

 ** _*Author's note*_** So I posted this all in one block earlier even though there were huge chunks missing, but I've decided to fill those gaps so here's the final thing ^^ New and improved (well, at least in SOME places...) and now six-ish chapter thingy - so I hope you'll enjoy it!

Obviously, all the quotes in the beginning of the chapters are from Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby, which was a MASSIVE influence on this fic, as well as these songs:  
\- Lana del Rey's _Off to the races_ (you'll actually find literal quotes from these two works of art in this fic, kudos to you if you can spot them ( **margaritta** already found the Lana del Rey one in the first draft)  
\- Florence + The Machine's _Breath of Life_ (for that gorgeous dizzy breathless athmosphere it creates)

* * *

 **-PROLOGUE-**

 _"Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth –  
but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget:  
a singing compulsion, a whispered "Listen," a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour."_

* * *

WILLAS

[three months to the election]

.

"Who do we have here?" he asked and stared down at the three pictures on the desk. The man wore an expensive suit, some Italian designer at a guess. Going by his greying hair, Willas would have said he was in his mid-forties, but his face looked younger. Something about the way he held his cigarette made Willas think of cocaine addicts, but the signet ring, the tie pin and the expensive watch said politician and he didn't think that those kinds of things went together.

The girl was very pretty, big blue eyes and thick, auburn hair. Her clothes were expensive and spoke of excellent taste, but something made him wonder if she really chose them herself. She was photographed in mid-motion, taking off her sunglasses in the first, getting into the man's car in the second. She had a certain elegance about her, like some kind of dancer, and a very beautiful and very strange smile on her lips.

"That's one of the candidates, isn't it?" he asked, gesturing unnecessarily towards the photograph of the man. "What's his name again?"

"Petyr Baelish. You'd do well to remember that, Tyrell, he might be your next prime minister," said his new chief editor in that condescending tone she never seemed to get rid of.

Willas forced himself not to roll his eyes, nodded and took up the second photograph, eying the couple closer. She was young enough to pass as his daughter, early twenties at most, but that was quite obviously not the case. Mr _Running-for-Prime-Minister_ looked at her like he'd had nothing but bread and water for years and she was an exquisite five-course meal, but she didn't seem to care about that. Again, the way she smiled – it looked well-practised, not necessarily _dishonest,_ though. He couldn't make any sense of it.

"And the girl?"

"Sansa Stark. She's his-" Cersei Lannister sighed and ran a hand through her golden curls. "God knows. We're still trying to find a fitting term. She's the female version of a boytoy, if you want."

She sounded even more condescending now.

He put the picture down. "What else?"

"Well, if you dig deep enough, I'm sure you'll find more than enough juicy stuff to make something good out of it," she answered, clearly done with the conversation, but he wasn't.

"If he's a politician, I won't find much. Meaning I'm supposed to write a big article about two people we basically know _nothing_ about?"

She rolled her eyes. "Jesus, you're writing for a tabloid, not the bloody Times. _Make it up_ if you have to."

Willas groaned as he watched her go. What kind of advice was that? If he made something up, he might end up getting the bloody _prime minister_ very cross with him, and he figured that would not be good for him at all.

No, everything he wrote had to be properly researched and Cersei had known that all along. God, he hated her already.

* * *

 ** _Please take a moment to review._**


	2. Part One

**-PART ONE-**

 _"'_ _All right,' I said, 'I'm glad it's a girl. And I hope she'll be a fool – that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool'…  
You see I think everything's terrible anyhow. Everybody thinks so – the most advanced people.  
And I _know. _I've been everywhere and seen everything and done everything. Sophisticated – God, I'm sophisticated!"_

* * *

SANSA

[four months to the election]

.

She wasn't sure if she would ever get used to this place.

The garden was so spectacularly devoid of plants that she sometimes wondered if it deserved the name at all, and yet there was a mesmerising, morbid beauty about the abyss at the far end of the lawn.

Something about the sparkling water of the sea a hundred feet below, about the winds that carried the taste of salt and sand and chalk up the cliff constantly beckoned her, called for her to try and see what it would be like-

Sansa couldn't remember a summer this hot in England, but her childhood was a blur of bittersweet, carefully stored-away memories and she wasn't sure if she could rely on these anymore. She knew there were many, many things her brain had simply erased to keep her sane, when her family had been gradually decimated to just one remaining member.

She'd got so good at pretending she'd forgot all about being the last that sometimes she could go for almost a day now before the pain caught up with her, and she was determined to believe that was some kind of progress.

She'd been in town a few days back, strolled the eerily quiet streets and listlessly gone through a couple of clothing shops, but even that had been dreadfully exhausting. The flimmering air over the concrete gave everything a surreal, dream-like feeling, like she was watching one of these old artsy movies where nothing much ever happened and everyone seemed brooding and apathetic and everything was awfully complicated and incredibly simple at the same time.

The heat that had engulfed the south of England two weeks ago didn't seem about to relent any time soon, and something about it had transformed Sansa into an entirely different person. All she wanted to do was lie in the shade or drift in the cool water of the pool; there was a lethargy and a carelessness to the world in the brightness and the heat of her days, and an infinite pretence and dizziness to her starry nights.

The sun had scorched the only bit of green in the garden, turned the lawn into a yellowish field with little spikes that crumbled underneath the soles of her feet when she made her way back to the terrace. The reflections of sunlight on the pool's surface drew strange patterns on Petyr's face and she wondered if his eyes behind the sunglasses looked greener in this light.

Unlike her, he seemed to thrive in the heat. The blinding sun lighted his stage whenever he appeared in the public, and Sansa never ceased to be amazed at how much trust he could spread while giving away so ridiculously little about himself. His ratings in the surveys went up with every month and there was no doubt anymore that Petyr Baelish was no longer just another upjumped MP, but actually very likely to win this election.

There certainly weren't many candidates who worked this hard to get there, and the longer she watched him, the more she believed he might actually deserve to win the race.

"How are you not yet in hospital because of a heatstroke?" she asked, sitting down on the edge of the pool, and dangled her bare legs in the cool water. A huge white straw hat protected her fair skin from most of the sunlight, but even with the shade it cast and with the loose, sleeveless dress she felt like someone had trapped her in a sauna.

Petyr wore the same dress shirt he'd worn to the office in the morning, the sleeve shoved up to the elbow, the same black trousers, the same black leather shoes. His sunglasses were his only acknowledgement of the scorching sun, and the missing tie his only concession to the fact he was at home. She'd never seen him in any less formal kind of clothing, and she doubted she ever would.

"Not all of us grew up on an ice cube," he replied without taking his eyes off the stack of print-outs in his hands, "and this really isn't the Sahara, love."

"It _feels_ like the Sahara," she sighed theatrically and got to her feet. "I need a drink or I'll shrivel up and die, right now."

A smile twitched around his lips, but his eyes remained on his speech while he held up his empty glass. "I'll have one, too, please."

The cool stone floor inside was a relief. Back at home, there'd been heating to warm up the wooden floorboards… but that had been in another lifetime, another reality almost.

Petyr's house constantly felt like half a fantasy, like something her mind had dreamed up with the help of a bottle of Gin, or maybe one of Dany's pills back in Vegas - but Sansa was grateful it was nothing like home.

Everything here was new and shiny and cool, glass doors and grey carpets, black sheets and white walls, twice the amount of space the furniture called for and a fireplace that was so clean she doubted it had ever been used at all.

The Sansa of three years ago would have hated it here, but now she liked the vastness and the blunt simplicity of it all.

It helped her forget.

The ice cubes jingled in the glasses. Petyr hated it when there was a lot of ice in his drink ("I'm not about to pour half a pint of tap water into my scotch, sweetling, I know how much I paid for it"), but her drinks consisted of more ice than of actual alcohol these days – which was for the better, or she'd just be drunk for twelve hours a day.

God knew she had tried _that,_ and if it hadn't been for Petyr, who knew where she might have ended up. Where _Joffrey_ might have ended her up-

She caught sight of her face in the reflection on the kitchen cupboards, and instantly felt stupid. _Deep and brooding isn't a good look on a chick, you literally can't be hot enough to pull it off,_ Joffrey had said, and that one time, he'd actually been right in a way.

The less she cared, the less people _knew_ she cared, the less people thought she understood, the better off she was. Nobody ever saw past her beauty, and after everything she'd been through, maybe that was just as well.

Well, nobody ever saw past it – except for Petyr. Petyr could see her, he'd seen it all right away, seen that she _wasn't_ weak, that she _wasn't_ stupid, that she _wasn't wasn't wasn't_ innocent, not anymore.

Everyone looked at her and saw red hair, blue eyes, long legs – Petyr saw all of her, for better and for worse.

Still, she thought and gripped her glass firmer, willing the cold ice to bring her back to reality, just because Petyr probably wasn't all in one piece himself didn't mean he wouldn't get bored with a moping, depressed girl eventually.

And she needed him. She had no one else.

 _Stop it now._

She carried the glasses outside and fished a cigarette out of the unopened package on a side table on her way out.

Petyr didn't smoke, and neither did she – the cigarettes were just part of the act. Half of the working class voters that Stannis Baratheon and even Arianne Martell never quite connected with still nursed a smoking habit, and so sometimes Petyr would stand at some construction site with a cigarette between his delicate fingers and chat about his father and his run-down neighbourhood and somehow pull the feat to look perfectly at home there despite his two-hundred pound leather shoes and his silver cufflinks.

Sansa, on the other hand, had learned to hide her sorrow behind a cloud of smoke, shielding her face from vision just long enough to wipe it off and adjust her smile, steady a shaking hand. She hated the taste of the nicotine, but it forced her to take slow, regular breaths, cleared her head, calmed her heartbeat.

"Will you come along tonight?" he asked, swirling the last remnant of the ice around in his glass.

It wasn't really a question; she knew there already was a hand-picked cocktail dress waiting for her on her bed.

"Charity gala, was it?" she asked and sat down on a sun lounger, blinking into the sunlight. "Who's hosting it?"

"Doran Martell. Don't worry, though… if his son makes an appearance, it promises to be quite the party. Oberyn never was very moderate."

Sansa smiled. _Boredom_ was about the only thing she hadn't yet experienced at the upper class events he took her too.

She slowly exhaled the cigarette smoke, then asked without any real conviction: "Will you let me drive?"

He chuckled. "When you've been complaining about being drunk and getting a sunstroke all week? Some other time, sweetling."

"Fine." She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Petyr hardly let her touch his car anyway, and it was too hot to fuss.

He got up and plucked the cigarette from her fingers, his skin cool against her knuckles.

"You'll set the lawn on fire," he muttered and took a drag himself, watching her from behind his sunglasses. He was hard enough to read as it was, and with his grey-and-green eyes shielded completely from her view, there was no way for her to tell what he was thinking.

She would have rolled her eyes at him, but he was right.

There was a nerve-wracking sense of impending doom about everything these days; the slightest spark would suffice to set entire fields ablaze. In a way, Sansa liked the notion of annihilating the crops she could see from her window with their never-ending waving in the wind, always in motion and yet so _passive_. The drama, the finality of it seemed vaguely thrilling to her -

"It's a dangerous habit," she said instead, squinting up at him through the bright sunlight.

Petyr shrugged. "So is driving. What _isn't_ a dangerous habit?" He took another drag from the cigarette and threw her a shrewd smile. "Do you mean to say I'm developing a smoking habit, dear, or were you talking about yourself?"

"Neither," she answered, throwing him an apologetic smile. _Don't be so rude, Sansa_. "I'm just saying we're living dangerously, smoking in this heat."

His smile turned a tiny bit dirty. "Well, and aren't you enjoying it?"

She laughed and stretched out on the lounger. "Just a little."

Petyr put out the cigarette in his empty glass, gathered his print-outs and shoved his sunglasses into his pocket. The grey in his eyes sparkled like polished silver in the sun. "It's a sixty minute drive to the Martells' from here. The gala's at eight."

"What time is it?" she asked languidly, adjusting her sunhat.

"Four thirty." That smile was still on his lips. "Come inside, you'll get a sunburn."

She'd learned to see through phrases like that. This one was actually more of an invitation than a request, though, and she felt so heavy and immobile she decided she could refuse it.

"I thought you wanted to finish your speech."

His grin turned a little rueful, but somehow it didn't look any less dirty. "Mh. Did I say that?"

His fingers travelled along her collarbone, stroking a strand of copper hair that had escaped her braid behind her shoulder.

"You did," she whispered with half a smile and pushed herself up just enough to meet his lips. It was a chaste kiss for both their standards – it was too hot to move, too hot to get excited; and he had a speech to finish and no matter what he said, Petyr would never put his work off, not even for her.

He got to his feet and stepped through the garden door, then called from somewhere inside the house: "We leave at quarter to six, Sansa."

"I _know._ "

.

There _was_ a dress on her bed, and like all the others she'd worn to his parties, it was an exquisite, lavish bit of fashion that fit as if it had been made especially for her (she wouldn't put it past Petyr to _actually_ have them tailored). This one was of a blue so dark she had to put it next to a black dress to determine the colour. It had a fairly simple off-the-shoulder top with a skirt that fell to her shins in countless layers of chiffon, and it weighed next to nothing.

Once again, she couldn't help but be impressed with his impeccable taste, and forgot that she _could_ have bought a dress for herself.

He turned up as she was doing her make-up, leaned against the open doorway and watched her with his sharp grey eyes, the hint of an insinuating smile playing around his lips. He was already dressed, had swapped his white shirt for a pale blue one and put on a more expensive pair of shoes, that was to say – except for the tie that hung around his neck. It didn't look like he remembered he'd only tied it halfway.

She supressed a smile at the sight of it – smiling would ruin her lip line. It was a pleasure to see the influence she had over _him_ for a change, to see she could mess with his head, too.

Or maybe he just wanted her to think that.

Petyr had bought her the bloody red lipstick, and he seemed very pleased with that investment every time she wore it (even though she was sure it had ruined at least one of his shirts).

With a last glance into the mirror, she slipped into the dress and pushed her hair over her shoulder. "Zip me up, please?"

He took his time to fulfil her request, and his fingers wandered up her back slowly before the zipper was closed, sending little shivers up her spine that put a decidedly too smug smile on his lips. Finally, his hands came to rest on her hips and he looked at her reflection in the mirror.

"Do you like your dress, sweetling?"

"I'm paralysed with happiness," she replied with a bright smile, and he laughed and pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder.

"Music to my ears." His lips wandered up her chin.

"You'll ruin my make-up," she said, turning in his arms to face him instead of really resisting, though.

"Redo it in the car." His lips met hers and his hand tangled in her braid, pulling her closer.

"And my hair," she whispered breathlessly, but he just buried his fingers deeper, his body pushing her backwards into the cold mirror.

"It's a long drive," he muttered against her lips with a smirk.

"We'll be late," she argued feebly. Her skirt was travelling up her leg and the fingers of his free hand brushed across her thigh almost accidentally, making her forget whatever she'd wanted to say next.

"We'll make an entrance."

She leaned into his touch with a smile and focused her attention on discarding of all those annoying layers of fabric between them with impatience – her lipstick was ruined anyway, and it wasn't like _she_ cared about when they'd get there. If her night consisted of nothing but this, she would mind that one bit, either.

* * *

 _ **Please take a moment to review.**_

* * *

 _ ***A/N***_ There was actually supposed to be another part to this where they're actually AT the party, but then I decided I liked to only see these two party from an outside observer's point of view (which is totally not a really lazy excuse for not writing it) but it IS more in the style of Gatsby so oh well. I can live with it.

Otherwise, this chapter is probably the one where I *subtly* implemented my theme (yeah, I'm totally rubbing it in your face - there are like two or three actual quotes from the book in here. I'm not even sorry.)


	3. Part Two

**-PART TWO-**

 _"_ _The truth was that Jay Gatsby, of West Egg, Long Island, sprang from his Platonic conception of himself. He was a son of God – a phrase which, if it means anything, means just that – and he must be about His Father's Business, the service of a vast, vulgar and meretricious beauty.  
So he invented just the sort of Jay Gatsby that a seventeen year-old boy would be likely to invent, and to this conception he was faithful to the end."_

* * *

WILLAS

[ten weeks to the election]

.

Petyr Baelish's childhood was as surprising as it was textbook: son of an Irish carpenter and an English artist, he grew up very poor in a suburb of London with a horrendous crime rate. Little Petyr was four years old when his mother died (natural causes, probably an illness, nothing fishy), an excellent student. That was as far as the official information went.

When Willas tried to dig a little deeper, he met the usual problems: people hanging up the phone the moment he said he was writing for a newspaper, or else, the moment he asked for information about Baelish. No matter whose number he came up with, headmasters, old teachers, neighbours; dead ends everywhere. Someone had been very thorough with the lot of them, he thought.

His search in old newspapers didn't help very much, either. The politician's name didn't come up once; the only thing he found were two arrests made at his school half a year before his graduation.

Cocaine traffic.

He thought of the way Baelish held his cigarette, he was sure now, he'd seen it before – but it was a far-fetched connection even for a tabloid article, so he dismissed the thought.

There was nothing else to find before another outstanding graduation from university, Oxford of course, and even though he knew his new boss told him to, he couldn't bring himself to make up any stories.

The beginning of his text therefore turned out being dreadfully boring. Even for a tabloid article.

But then, surprisingly, one of the people he'd so desperately begged for information called him back. The man sitting in the café waiting for him was in his late forties and grossly overweight. His bald head made his eyes look curiously big and there was something very, very fake in his smile.

He was called Varys and he had started teaching at Petyr Baelish's school when Baelish had been fourteen or fifteen. And, to Willas's greatest surprise, the man was in a mood to chat. Or, to put it a little more directly, it looked like he wasn't ever going to stop talking at all.

Apparently the truth was, of course, that Petyr Baelish hadn't been the perfect student the official records made him out to be. He hadn't wasted night after night on revision and studying, and he'd certainly not been an engaged, respectful student, either.

"He had good grades because he was smart, because it was all _so easy,_ or so he kept saying _._ He was never the teachers' favourite, though he was always one of the best students of his year."

"So he was rude?" Willas interrupted, frowning. He found it hard to imagine such behaviour from the man he'd seen on the photograph.

"Oh no, never. Certainly somehow… disdainful, but he was very quiet, always did what the teacher told him, never impolite. I believe that his teachers, myself included, all were a little scared of him. Boys like that, so smart, hardly challenged at all, and with so few friends, you see… they don't really mean any harm, but they get _bored_. They'll get queer ideas sooner or later, and they'll cause a huge mess if the teachers don't watch out."

"Did he?" Willas asked gently when Varys didn't go on. "Cause a mess?"

Varys's smile faded a little. "Well, from what we all could see the boy never did anything, but several _odd_ things happened while he was there that he was certainly involved in, one way or another."

Willas nodded. "The cocaine?"

Varys smile was back up and looked even faker than before. "Tyrion Lannister and his friend Bronn each got a year for that," he said, his tone smooth and empty. "The police never even looked twice at Baelish."

Willas sighed. Yes, he'd read that in the bloody newspaper. "But several students bought from them, right? Did Baelish?"

"If he did, he was never caught. But, to be honest…," Varys took a sip from his cup, "It's not the kind of thing he would do, if you ask me. He… he always seemed very keen on being in control. Strong drugs like that don't really seem his style to me… as far as I know, there was only one time he got really drunk."

"Well, you as his teacher wouldn't really know about that-"

"There are things about Baelish that most of us knew back then… Has anyone told you about the Tully sisters?"

Willas frowned, confused, and muttered: "…No, I don't think-"

"Catelyn and Lysa Tully. They lived in the same neighbourhood as Baelish, they practically grew up together. Only he was poor, and, you know, _foreign_ ", Varys whispered that word, smiling mildly, "well, actually, he just had a foreign _father,_ and _he_ was from Ireland, so that's not really all that foreign. But you know, to those old honourable English families everyone who wasn't born less than fifty miles from London is basically extra-terrestrial. Either way, the older one, Catelyn, she was… beautiful, you see, very good at school, popular to no end… went out with the school's football champ, Brandon Stark. He was handsome, all muscles, bit of a temper. All the girls wanted him, and all the boys wanted to be like him. And little Littlefinger," Varys smiled to himself about his pun, "three years Catelyn's junior, he was _madly_ in love with her. Her little sister, on the other hand-"

"Lysa, was it?"

"Yes. Lysa. _She_ was completely infatuated with Baelish, who didn't really care because he was busy pining over her sister."

"Well, that's nothing unheard of."

"Hear me out. Baelish kept on getting in trouble with Brandon, Catelyn's boyfriend, telling him to keep away from her, that he didn't deserve her… you get my drift. He got so importunate Hoster Tully, the girls' father, threatened to obtain an interim order against him. Cat was mortified, and Brandon, well… he got very angry."

"Yeah, I still don't see how this is supposed to tell me anything about -"

"You will. One night, Baelish got Stark so riled up he snapped and - till then, most of the school had thought the whole business hilarious, but most of them choked on their laughter after that incident. Baelish refused to talk, even to the police, and of course Brandon said nothing either, but fact is Brandon ended him up in hospital. The boy was slashed open, probably a broken bottle or something of that sort. Rumour had it he only very barely survived the blood loss." Varys sighed. "Catelyn broke up with Brandon after that, of course, her family couldn't have her running about with such a person. They had to think of their reputation," he added gently, nothing but the hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Brandon died soon after that, car crash or something, and Baelish turned up on Catelyn's doorstep the moment he heard, but she sent him away with what must have been some very final words. She and Brandon's brother Ned… uh, _bonded_ over their shared grief. Got married a year later." He poured himself another cup.

"Baelish had this idea in his head that everything that had happened had been Hoster Tully's fault, that he forbid Catelyn to come near him and thus ruined any chance he might have had. Well, Baelish's dignity had got more than a little scratched in the whole affair and I think he just needed someone to blame. Anyway, since Catelyn was well out of reach, he turned to several bottles of his father's liquor, and finally to poor little Lysa. She'd always been a little simple, see, and she _adored_ Baelish, made his revenge _so_ easy.  
It was a huge scandal, and all her rich well-bred friends turned away from her the moment they heard. Her father was outraged and immediately tried to cover everything up. If people would have found out – _his_ daughter, from a good long-established English family, loses her virginity to the son of an Irish carpenter, in a dirty school lavatory. Both of them drunk, to make it all even worse."

" _Ouch_ ," Willas muttered, finally starting to see what Varys wanted to tell him. Baelish was the kind of person who sacrificed others for his own needs – but that wasn't really all that surprising. He _was_ trying to become prime minister.

"Exactly. Lysa, naïve as she was, of course hoped he'd settle for her after that-"

"But he didn't."

"Oh, he came back often enough. When he was bored. Or when he needed something… her father had somehow convinced one of his colleagues she'd be just perfect for him, and left his daughter little choice but to become involved with that man. He was in his early forties then, you see, and poor Lysa was _dreadfully_ unhappy. Baelish… ah, provided some comfort, and in return, she called in a few favours with her husband for her so-called _childhood friend_."

"So she got him into politics?" Willas asked, taken aback. Well, wasn't _that_ news.

"Oh, don't underestimate him. He would have got where he wanted by himself, with his grades and his skills and his master's degree from Oxford, but it would have taken him a lot longer. Lysa's husband… helped along."

"Is she still married to that man?"

Varys pulled a sad face that didn't convince him. "Oh no, he died some five years back, and left her with a sick son. The poor woman had gone quite a bit soft in the head herself by then."

"Where is she now?"

"In her house in the boroughs, but I wouldn't recommend a chat. Poor thing has an aggressive temper these days, threatens people left and right, and anyways, she's not the most _reliable_ of sources, I suppose."

"And the sister? Catelyn?"

"You can't talk to her, either, I'm afraid… Her husband was shot, something of an execution it seemed. He'd got into politics himself, you see, but he wasn't made for it… fell in with the wrong kind of people, relied on the wrong person to keep him safe… _Mafia,_ if you'd believe what people said. Catelyn apparently tried to avenge him, and her and her oldest son ended up much the same. Such misfortune, the whole family… well, except the last of them, of course. She gets to have everything… let's just hope it lasts."

"Good Lord," he muttered, staring into his cup. "Who is the last of them?"

Varys smiled. "Didn't you listen, dear boy? Brandon and Ned _Stark._ "

For a moment, Willas didn't get it at all, then he asked slowly: "Isn't that the name of Baelish's…"

"Sansa is Catelyn's daughter. Some people say…" he leaned closer and looked about himself as if he expected someone to try and listen in on the conversation, "… some say that's why… because she looks so much like her mother."

.

[nine weeks to the election]

.

He knew Cersei had led him straight into a thing that was far too big for both him and their dumb tabloid. For God's sake, two people had gone to prison, probably completely innocent people.

And three people had died a violent death.

This was bigger than anything he'd ever wanted to get involved in. And yet… yet he couldn't get the image of that girl out of his head. Fragile, beautiful Sansa Stark, and the politician with that dirty grin on his lips, watching her from behind his dark sunglasses.

Sansa, Willas had learned, had let her boyfriend take her to America when her mother and her brother died, just half a year after her father had been shot and her little siblings had gone missing. Las Vegas, rumour had it, to take her mind off things. Having met Joffrey Lannister, if only fleetingly, and having to suffer his mother on a daily basis, Willas could about imagine how that had worked out for her.

Baelish must have met her there, though Willas couldn't fathom how that had happened – he could neither see a sensible reason for Baelish to just happen across her nor could he picture a man like him risking his reputation just to seek out the daughter of his childhood sweetheart in a paradise for strippers and addicts.

He didn't understand _any_ of it, really.

Willas couldn't see what Sansa _wanted_ with him, and besides, Baelish seemed a little too scheming to just keep her around for her pretty face. He wanted to know what the hell Baelish had in mind with the girl.

So he sighed, cursed himself and his own stupidity, and picked up the phone again.

The next person he called, not without panicking slightly, was Tyrion Lannister. The younger brother of his boss. To ask about drug traffic.

"Was it Baelish?" he asked bluntly after a little small talk, and just as he'd thought, Lannister seemed to know exactly what he was talking about.

"Some advice, boy. Let sleeping dogs lie."

"So it _was_ Baelish?"

Lannister sighed. "I don't know, and if you're smart, you'll tell yourself the same. People who get too close to Littlefinger…"

"Yes?"

"Just look up what happened to Ned Stark," Lannister said darkly, audibly done with the conversation, but Willas interrupted him hastily before he could hang up.

"Hang on. Ned Stark's death had nothing to do with Baelish."

"Of course it hadn't. Keep me out of this, boy."

"No, tell me what you _mean,_ I won't quote you or anything, I won't tell a soul, I just want to know-"

"The truth?" Lannister laughed. "You haven't been in the business for long, have you?" There was a long pause, but then, finally- "Baelish promised Catelyn he'd have an eye on Ned. For her sake. The people Stark got into trouble with… he introduced him to them."

"He _introduced-_ "

"Again, boy, if you're smart, stay out of this," Lannister repeated. "Also, if my name comes up in any of this, I'll get my sister to have your head."

.

His next move was… desperate. But fact was, there were only three parties who seemed to know about all this. The Lannisters refused to talk, Catelyn and Ned Stark were dead, so there really was only one other person he could talk to.

And now he was renting a bloody dinner jacket.

He was going to look a right idiot among all those rich politics people. Not to mention there was always the possibility Baelish would straight up have him murdered when he brought the whole topic up – Petyr Baelish seemed the type.

Willas _hated_ big social events, ever since he'd got his leg smashed at that stupid athletics tournament. He'd been just a kid and he could hardly remember the whole accident, but his father said another boy had messed with his pole and Willas had fallen some eight feet – and landed very unfortunately on his right leg. He was limping ever since, and he always had the feeling everyone around him noticed, and stared.

For someone who was this anxious to go out, becoming a journalist had probably been a very stupid job decision.

Even the building reeked of wealth and pretence, he thought and instinctively tried to shove his hands down his trouser pockets like he always did – only there were none, because he was wearing a _goddamn suit._

This was going to be a very long night… and he would count himself lucky if he remembered half of the guests' names.

"Okay," he muttered to himself and made his way to the entrance, clutching his press card. "Okay."

Even the bumper was wearing a tux, and he threw Willas a suspicious glance, but let him pass after inspecting his card for a moment.

Petyr Baelish was fashionably late to the event – Willas had been there for over an hour when he finally turned up. He wore an offhanded smile and an understated suit and matching tie, making him look almost like a waiter or an attorney among the other guests in their tuxedos and bow-ties. A sliver tie pin glittered on the dark silk, shaped like a small bird. He had barely crossed the threshold when somebody put a glass of champagne in his hand.

Where Baelish looked calm, modest and at ease, his date for the night was vibrant and sparkling. Her dark emerald green cocktail dress made her hair shine like molten copper and her blue eyes had an almost feverish gleam to them. She wore almost no make-up, only a simple pair of earrings, and yet she was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman in the building. Still he thought there was something insecure, something similar to sleep-walking in the way she clutched her glass and moved aimlessly through the room. While Willas watched her, Sansa Stark wandered among the guests, making suspiciously little small-talk, the champagne glass quickly followed by a martini, then some colourful cocktail, then more clear liquor in varying glass shapes.

From time to time, she stopped to talk to Baelish, almost as if she'd run into him by accident. Willas found the dynamic between them very hard to read – there was something decidedly intimate to it, the small distance between them, the way their gestures and positions were almost identical and the casual physical contact - her hand brushing past his, his hand on her arm, his fingers brushing a strand of auburn hair out of her face. And he had the impression Sansa looked a little calmer, a little more stable when she was close to him.

But then again, they both seemed somewhat distracted, Baelish eyeing everyone in the room warily, reading their faces, probably their lips as well, making pleasant small-talk with his opponents; Sansa with her vague smile and her soft voice, drinking and weaving through the crowd. She hardly ever seemed to listen to what people told her, except maybe for Baelish, but Willas wondered if maybe she was giving them that impression on purpose.

She reminded him of something floating on a river, a paper boat or a flower petal, light, twirling, restless.

With a deep sigh, Willas made his way through the crowd, almost bumping into waiters balancing trays full of sparkling liquor no less than three times.

"Mr Baelish?"

The politician turned to face him, a mildly surprised look in his eyes. He was a little shorter than Willas, his dark hair turning silver at the temples. Willas thought he looked rather unimpressive, except maybe for his grey-green eyes that had an alert, teasing air about them.

"Yes?"

Willas cleared his throat nervously. "My name is Willas Tyrell, I, um… I work for-"

"A tabloid," Baelish supplied, a faint sardonic smile playing around his lips. "You're new to this whole thing, aren't you, Mr Tyrell?"

"Yes… how…" Willas shook his head and started over. "I'm trying to get a story together, about… about the Stark family."

"Oh dear, yes," Baelish sighed, turning his glass in his hands – Scotch, this time. "Tragic. Poor Catelyn and her _sons,_ how old were they again?"

"Nineteen, twelve and… four years old. The girl disappeared as well, Arya."

The politician's eyes flickered to Sansa for a moment, then he took a sip from his glass and nodded. "Right. Who would do something like that?"

Willas noticed how Ned and Brandon didn't get mentioned at all. "Hardly anyone seems to know anything about it," he replied. "That's what intrigued me so much. Even the accident of Ned Stark's brother, they made an arrest and the guy got his verdict and all, but nobody ever seemed to care about what really happened. It's a very mysterious tragedy."

"Certainly," Baelish answered carefully. "But, if you don't mind me asking… what do I have to do with all this? You came all this way."

"Well, you… you knew them all for a long time and you and Ned were in with the same crowd."

Baelish laughed a little, his eyes very cautious. "It is a very _big_ crowd, Mr Tyrell, look around." He waved a hand at the crowded ballroom. "These aren't even half the people I deal with. If Cat hadn't told me Ned was around, I would have probably never noticed him."

Willas grimaced. He'd somehow known Baelish would say something like that. "I know, but… I was hoping I could talk to you about it some time, see if there are any details that could help me."

A look of confusion flickered over his features. "I, um… I can't quite follow, I'm afraid," he said in a friendly tone. "You see, I'm running a campaign, I am somewhat busy. Besides, if you've looked into the whole thing, you might have seen the police records as well? It would surprise me to hear my name came up at all, I can't even recall being questioned."

"I know," Willas answered faintly, "but I also know you knew Catelyn Stark from school, and… Brandon and Ned as well, it says so in the school records."

Again, Baelish frowned. "Well, yes, I went to school with them, and I did know Cat rather well, but I only knew Brandon because he was on the football team, and I don't think I ever spoke to Ned at all. And then later… you know, I met Stark a couple of times, shook hands, he, um, he made a couple of rather possessive remarks about his wife, I introduced him to a colleague or two and well, before I knew it, someone put a bullet through his head. I'm afraid I'm not much help."

"There are people who say that those one or two colleagues you introduced him to were the ones that got him killed," Willas said, annoyed with Baelish's suave way of talking himself out of things.

"I would be very sorry to hear that," the politician answered, emptying his glass, and Willas sourly noted his utterly convincing, slightly shaken tone. "I did what I did trying to help."

"Ned Stark married the girl you were in love with at school," Willas was proud to notice a flicker of genuine surprise in Baelish's eyes, "why would you have tried to help him?"

"Cat asked me to," he answered flatly. "It would have been childish to refuse."

"Some say you did it on purpose."

"Some," Baelish repeated with a sardonic smirk. "A nice bit of gossip. Sounds like a reporter's dream come true, doesn't it? Too bad it's only an interesting theory."

Willas fought the urge to roll his eyes. "What would happen if someone could prove it? Theoretically speaking?"

"Nothing." Baelish shrugged. "Even if I'd made him shake hands with a psychotic mass murderer, it would not have been the least bit criminal."

"You would still have knowingly led him into danger. Maybe even knowingly led him to his death. Maybe that's not criminal, but…"

"Mr Tyrell, even if I'd done such a thing," Baelish said patiently, "and I understand why you would like that, you're at the beginning of your career, and no one needs a disaster like a budding journalist… but even _if_ I'd done that… show me the police officer who would arrest me on charges of immorality and I'll be scared of you. Until then," he threw him a crooked smile, "I'm afraid you're not very threatening." He turned to the waiter and said, still in his jovial tone:

"Whatever the young man here has tonight is on me. You make sure he enjoys himself."

Willas frowned. _What the hell…?_

"I'm very sorry, but I don't have much more time for you, Mr Tyrell. Have a nice evening."

Then, almost as an afterthought, Baelish turned around, stepping very close, and added in a quiet, cold voice: "You will only speak to Sansa if she addressed you first. Are we clear on that?"

Willas scoffed. So what would he do if he talked to her anyway?

Stop buying him drinks?

"Why don't you want me to talk to her?"

"Why would I want to keep an nineteen year-old girl from being constantly reminded of how both her parents and her four siblings were taken away from her?" Baelish asked, his voice full of mockery.

Willas couldn't stop himself from replying: "Why don't I believe you give a damn about her grief?"

Baelish smiled wryly. "Well, maybe I do care. Or maybe I just don't feel like putting up with a crying date. Either way…" his smile turned very cold, "don't go near her. You would sorely regret it."

He could do nothing but stare after him in utter disbelief. Petyr Baelish had really proven everything Willas had thought he'd be – as intelligent as he was eloquent, cunning, dirty-minded, and an arrogant bastard on top of that. Besides, there was that disturbing lack of empathy underneath his pleasant smiles… he probably classified as a psychopath… or was it sociopath?

Willas never could tell those terms apart.

"Drink, sir?" the waiter asked with a polite smile.

"Huh?" He looked up, startled, and was about to tell him no when he changed his mind. "Um, yes. Please. I'll have a whiskey, please, but not… not that nasty cheap stuff."

"Of course, sir," the waiter replied and scuttled off. Deep down, Willas knew that no matter how much expensive liquor he could drink in one night it would hardly hurt Baelish, with all that money he'd amassed over the years in a hundred different ways that were only legal if you squinted slightly.

But it felt good anyway.

"You look lost." Her voice was just as he'd imagined, soft and bright, with a very faint huskiness as if she'd had a cold. Maybe it was the alcohol. "I know how that feels."

"Yeah," he muttered, swirling his drink in his glass. "This is a weird place." He looked up at her for a moment, the way her dress flowed around her slender body and her hair shone against the dark green. "Not for you, of course." _That made zero sense._ "I'm Willas. Tyrell. I work for a newspaper."

"Sansa," she said with a smile, and thankfully went on before he could say _I know_. "And believe me, it _is_ , for me as well."

"You don't look lost, though."

For a moment, she cast her eyes down. "I've had a lot of time to learn how to blend in." Then she leaned closer and added in an even quieter, conspiratorial voice: "And I have someone paying for my drinks."

Willas laughed. "Well, the same person who's paying for _my_ drinks tonight, I guess."

The frown looked very pretty on her face. "Petyr's paying for your drinks? I wouldn't accept gifts from him. He'll end up asking something in return."

 _Oh, does he? What's he asking from you, then?_

"Um, you think it's a gift? It… I'm not sure what he said to me, but it sounded more like a threat."

She gave a bright little laugh and turned towards a waiter who stood waiting with a glass of something clear with a slice of cucumber in it. "Thank you." She turned back to Willas. "Petyr doesn't threaten people."

"What does he do, then?" Willas asked carefully, unsure whether she might take this as an insult.

But Sansa Stark just smiled. "He talks people into things. You know, he's a politician, it's what they do."

Oh, well, she'd had a good teacher. Willas sighed and emptied his glass. "I know he's trying to get influential people to vote for him, but… why are you here?"

She still smiled that knowing little smile. "Everyone here's trying to spy on the other, Willas. That's why they're here, it's not about votes, it's about getting ahead of the competition."

"And you? Are you spying for him?"

"I'm a girl," she replied with a shrug and another of her shy smiles tugged at her red lips. "If I get to go to a big posh party and wear an eight hundred pounds dress and drink expensive champagne and more gin than I could ever pay for, why'd I say no to that?"

"Right." He nodded stupidly and tried not to stare at her too much. He had a feeling that would not bode too well for him, after his little chat with Baelish, and besides, he didn't want to look like a creep to her. "The gin's good?"

She laughed, and it sounded almost real this time. "Yeah, I quite like it."

"Thanks for the recommendation." He handed the waiter his empty glass and smiled at Sansa. "How long d'you think this party will take? I really need get out of here. I'm not used to being around politicians for so long."

Sansa grinned. "I thought you work for a newspaper. Shouldn't you be used to it?"

"Yeah, I haven't been doing this for very long."

She stroked back her auburn hair and nodded slowly. "Well, I hope your researches aren't done yet."

"Why?"

"Then I'd see you around," she replied with a smile and handed him her glass. "Try it, I'll get another. Nice to meet you."

And with that, before he could say anything else, she disappeared in the crowd.


	4. Part Three

***A/N*** beware, reader, for this is the lazily written filler part I never wanted to write. I hate half of it and it doesn't make much sense to me, but here it is anyway, because it is crucial to the plot.

* * *

 **-PART THREE-**

 _"Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalk really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees – he could climb it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder. […] He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God."_

* * *

SANSA

[nine weeks to the election]

.

"Your little Daisy Buchanan act was very convincing, by the way," Petyr said and handed her a coffee.

" _How_ did you even hear that?" Sansa asked with a frown, "you were at the other side of the room."

He chuckled and sat down across the table. "My hearing isn't that good, but I am a very attentive observer." He threw her a look over his coffee cup and added with a smirk: "And you pulled the same thing with Stannis's mistress, I heard you then."

She buttered her toast and took a sip of her coffee. It was boiling hot and more than a little too strong. She would have complained about it, only she knew that wouldn't change a thing.

"Well, from what I've gathered about Melisandre, she's still on her crusade and she's got Stannis wrapped around her finger, almost as much as his wife." She smiled. "She thinks she's all-knowing, it's actually kind of funny."

"She _is_ very perceptive," he argued softly, "I'm impressed you actually fooled her. Well, all the better for me," he added with a smirk, refilling his coffee cup. "Stannis used to be hard competition, but the majority won't vote for a religious fanatic whose only political intention is to be the _rightful leader this country deserves_. He's throwing away all his potential, for something I don't think he even really believes in."

"For sex," Sansa said with a smirk and emptied her coffee cup. "Stannis Baratheon is an actual guy after all."

There was a shadow flickering across his face for a second or so. "A stupid mistake to make, though, for such a smart man."

"Well, he's not likely to come to his senses anytime soon, anyway" Sansa answered with a shrug, trying to ignore his mood swing, and he smiled a little.

"Do you mean to say I don't have to take him into consideration anymore?"

"No," she replied and rolled her eyes. His tutoring got so obvious sometimes. "I'm saying don't invest too much time into your plan B."

"I'm starting to see why I'm keeping you around. What did you get on the others?"

.

[seven weeks to the election]

.

Sansa stared at the poorly illuminated photographs covering the top third of the page. The left one had been taken at a rather unfortunate angle and the bottom corner of the picture showed the shrubbery the paparazzi had apparently been lying in flat on his stomach to catch the couple in the restaurant on camera. Her fork was halfway to her mouth and she seemed to be laughing about something the man opposite had said. Petyr, as ever, seemed the very image of self-assurance and ease, his chair tipped back ever so slightly and a mildly amused look on his face. All in all, it was an awful picture, the quality was poor to say the least, both people on it were out of focus and facing away from the camera slightly. The ingenuity of it lay in the bright reflection of the lights on the knife in Petyr's hand in combination with the image on the right.

There wasn't much to be seen on this one, either. It had been taken on some narrow road lined with big elegant houses, also at night; Sansa counted five police cars, three DCs were just roping off the area with yellow crime scene tape. The black inscription on it was the only thing that was properly focused, _CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS,_ the cars and the constables blocked everything that went on behind it from view.

 **He has caviar and Arbor Gold while his ex falls to her death**

 _MP Petyr Baelish (38) was photographed at dinner with his current girlfriend, Sansa Stark (19).  
_ _Meanwhile, Lysa Arryn, widow of the late Jon Arryn, former mayor of London, fell from the balcony of her flat on the sixth floor. The cause of death is yet to be confirmed, however a neighbour told this newspaper he had seen Baelish leave her flat approximately two hours before her death.  
_ _According to an unnamed source, Baelish and Arryn were involved in Baelish's final year of school.  
_ _Baelish's office has made no statement as of yet about this shocking and tragic -_

When she heard footsteps approaching, she dropped the newspaper on the table as if she'd burnt her fingers, and out of some silly, inexplicable instinct hastily folded it back the way it had arrived with the mail. Then she snatched up her cup and put up the kettle, feeling like a child that had narrowly escaped being caught doing something forbidden.

Petyr entered the kitchen, poured himself half the pot of coffee at once, then balanced the dangerously full cup to the table while Sansa stopped in her tracks, not quite sure whether she was waiting for him to say good morning, spill the boiling hot coffee over his fingers or call her out for doing something she shouldn't have – which was stupid, because why shouldn't she read the papers? Why would he expect her not to? It was right there on the table after all, he'd put it there himself when he'd collected the mail.

Still, she couldn't shake the diffuse feeling there was something _wrong,_ that she'd forgotten how dangerous this man was, how careful she had to be around him.

 _Don't be silly, he was with you when it happened. And why would he want to do Aunt Lysa any harm? They haven't seen each other in ages… tabloids would say anything to get attention…_

And yet she'd heard his phone ringing in the middle of the night, and why would anyone wake up a powerful politician just to tell him some girl he'd gone to school with had fallen off her balcony? It wasn't like Aunt Lysa's name had ever come up, as if there had ever been any proof of the stories Lysa told when she'd had too much wine that made all her relatives roll her eyes… Petyr never spoke of her… who would think he'd care enough to know she was dead that he couldn't wait until it was all over the papers, and why?

When she sat down at the table, Petyr had picked up the newspaper. There was a contemptuous smile on his lips, but his eyes looked strangely dark. After a moment he looked up with a scoff and returned his attention to his coffee. "A woman dies and they're still desperate to make sure everyone sees how old I am right in the first line of text. They should have written the ages in bold letters, or maybe do the calculation for the less intelligent while they're on it."

"Sorry?" Sansa gave back innocently, her restless mind unable to come up with a more convincing reaction.

"Did you see this? The bloody football game beat us to page two," Petyr declared with a crooked grin and handed her the newspaper.

She glanced over the text for show, her heart beating a little too fast. He would see right through this. He always saw right through her.

She wondered what it would happen, if he had something to do with it. If it would change anything. Would she be scared of him? Would she hate him for it?

 _No,_ said a small unwelcome voice in her head. _He's always been good to me. He'd never hurt_ me.

"This isn't _funny,_ Petyr," she said darkly and took a sip of her tea. "You know there'll be an investigation, right? You'll be a _suspect_."

"Don't worry about me, Sansa. I'll be fine." He grabbed the grilled half of toast on her plate and ignored her dark glare.

"Your reputation might not be. You know you're in politics, don't you?"

"Oh, sweetling, I'm a liar, through and through, _no one_ will suspect me." He got up, poured himself another cup of coffee and added, in a voice that probably wouldn't sound fake to anyone but her: "The poor sweet thing topped herself, and I feel so guilty. Our visit must've worked her up, she probably had another bottle after we left and then she tripped and fell, _my God_ , is it my fault?" He placed a hand over his heart and raised a brow at her. "Nobody will have the slightest doubt. If anything, they'll love me for it. A touch of tragedy, people adore that."

Sansa just stared at him, not quite sure if she'd managed to keep the disgust out of her eyes. "You're unbelievable."

"I _know_ ," he replied in a voice that implied all the wrong things, emptied his cup and threw her a smile. "I'm running late."

She shook her head, suddenly very much convinced her intuition was right, and couldn't keep herself from muttering: "One day, all your lies will catch up with you, Petyr."

"I'll go to hell anyway, sweetling. No point in stopping now," he answered flatly and got to his feet.

"Did you have her murdered?" she called after him after a moment of hesitation, knowing it was a stupid thing to do, knowing he was too smart to tell her the truth even if he _was_ guilty, knowing full well her life would probably be a lot easier so long as she could pretend she didn't know a thing about her aunt's death.

He stopped in his tracks, a hand already on the door handle. "Is that what you think of me, darling?" he asked softly. "Do you really think I'm capable of something like that?"

"Yes," she whispered, her fingers clutching the cup trembling just a little.

"I didn't kill her, Sansa," he said without turning around, his voice without inflection.

"You're lying," she concluded after a moment, her voice so soft she could hardly hear it herself.

"Maybe. Maybe not. I'm running late," he said, equally quiet, and left without another word.

.

[six weeks from the election]

.

They didn't speak of it again – Sansa didn't dare pressing the matter, and he didn't seem to be very worried she would do anything about her suspicion. In fact, he seemed fairly sure that even _if_ she believed him to be a murderer, things wouldn't be any different.

And, though it took her a while to realise it, in the end, things really weren't any different.

Deep down, she'd always known there was something crooked about him. He'd never tried to trick her into thinking he had especially pure or humanitarian motivations – Petyr was a power-hungry man full of contempt for the people who'd always belittled him. To him, this was about recognition, about power, and about retaliation; and she'd known all this from the start.

He'd been good to her, though, and that and nothing else was what had pulled her in. Nobody had shown her kindness the way he had in what felt like forever, and in return, she would probably forgive him anything he did to others. It would take a while, but she would; Petyr had her in his hands and he knew it.

When it all came down, none of it really mattered.

It was a very final, but strangely liberating truth. Liberating, because it meant she would never have to tear out of that vast, comforting carelessness ever again, if nothing could ever change things between them anyway.

.

[five weeks from the election]

.

"I love you," she whispered, some night. She didn't know if she'd even known that before, if she'd ever said it before, but this time he heard, and for less than a second there was a very strange look on his face. Surprise, as it turned out, didn't really suit him.

The smile that followed was just a little too bright, a little too reassuring to be real, and his eyes a little too cold. Sometimes she wondered if he _wanted_ her to see when he was faking his smiles.

"You do, don't you, sweetling?" he muttered, green and silver bearing into blue, and gently pushed a strand of hair out of her face.

"It's what you were planning to happen all along," she gave back matter-of-factly. She wasn't angry; she actually felt like she'd known all along, somewhere in the back of her head. Petyr was always seeking to profit from what he did, and what else could he want from a girl who had nothing left?

"Did I?" he asked, an amused spark in his eyes. "I'm not sure I was aware of that."

Later, she would often wonder whether that hadn't been the most honest thing he'd ever said to her.

.

[two weeks from the election]

.

He grew quiet from that night on, not so that anyone else would have noticed, but Sansa did. She'd been watching him for so long now, and she _knew_ something had changed.

She still saw him during the day, buried in paperwork and coffee cups as usual; he made his quips and his jokes and gave it his best effort to hide from her, and he was excellent at hiding. He almost fooled her, but only just.

He still slipped into her room every other night, but as well as he had once managed to fool her aunt (that was if Willas was to be believed, anyway) even Petyr seemed to struggle faking their unwilling, strangely guilt-ridden affection. And how would you act someone wanting something but acting like they didn't want it acting like they didn't care? Even an actor like him couldn't possibly pull that feat.

No, something was off, and Sansa knew. And he knew she did.

Had she just got better at spotting the cracks in his masks, the little slip-ups in his lies, or was he actually acting strange?

Either way, there was something coming, and she was still trying to figure out how scared she should be when it happened.

"Tyrell's waiting for you outside," Petyr announced softly, putting down the phone. A security guy was controlling the driveway these days, a guy called Kettleblack or something, who informed Petyr of every car that he let pass.

Sansa had met up with Willas some four or five times already, talking about her family. She didn't really know why he cared so much – there were far too many lose ends to that story to tie it together for a decent article. She knew that much, having tried to piece together what had happened herself. There was always a piece that wouldn't fit.

"Why do you want me to give these interviews?" she asked, stopping in front of a mirror to fix a pin in her hairdo. "You always said let sleeping dogs lie. What changed your mind?"

"I need you to find a way to deal with your past on your own," he replied, putting aside his book and got off the couch. He'd been sitting there all morning, as if he'd been waiting for something.

(Looking back, she knew he had.)

"But why now?"

"Because you have to leave, sweetling."

From a neutral point of view, this statement could have meant anything, but his voice was very quiet and there was a gravity and finality about his words that made her lose ground for a second. In a way, she had been waiting for something like this, yet when she finally found her voice again, all she could do was ask, stupidly, like a little girl: "Why?"

"This… it all makes things complicated, and I can't deal with any complications at the moment."

That was ridiculous, so ridiculous it almost made her laugh out loud. Dealing with complications was all Petyr had _ever_ done in his life.

"That's not an answer," she said instead, too taken by surprise to be angry, or sad.

He gave a humourless laugh at that and took a long time to reply, studying her face intently as if he'd suddenly lost the ability to read her like an open book.

"You could be my daughter, you know that?" he asked then, a strange touch to his voice that she'd never heard before. "No, really, you could have been. If I'd had it my way back then, you would be."

Sansa just stared back at him, not so much shocked any more as she was disturbed. He wasn't making the least bit of sense.

She thought of the bottle of scotch Varys had given him a few days back, and of the small plastic bags with the white powder in his desk drawer, hidden carefully inside his old copy of The Scarlet Letter, and wondered if he'd really be so careless.

"What are you talking about?"

He shook his head and put his smile back up, but that strange look in his eyes wouldn't quite go. "You have to go, Sansa. It's for the best, trust me."

"Petyr." She'd told him she loved him, it had to be that – he was scared of ending up just like Stannis, there was nothing else… But Petyr didn't exactly consider Stannis's intellect on par with his own, so why would he believe he'd make the same mistakes?

He just smiled mildly. "And I'm not discussing it."

" _Petyr_ -"

"Give your new address to my office, I'll have your things brought round."

"What happened?" she finally managed to ask, though not as loud as she'd intended. In a way, she didn't even expect an answer, and she sure as hell didn't get one.

"Nothing, love, I just… I let this go on far too long. I should've had the nerve to stay away from you in the first place, I suppose," he answered in a strangely offhanded tone. "But don't worry, sweetling. You'll find soon enough you have that effect on most men. The world is yours, with your mother's looks and the two or three things I've taught you, and it's about time you put all that to some use."

She just stood there and stared at him, no idea how to even reply to that. The shock was ebbing off now and something else took over her head, but she wasn't quite sure yet what it was.

He sighed. "Sansa, I'm not joking. Please go. I would really hate to have you thrown out."

She couldn't help a helpless, angry little scoff at that. "Yeah. I really don't want to put you in that position, Petyr." Finally, she felt the tears she'd sort of waited for the last five minutes run down her cheeks. "Just… just at least tell me what's going on."

"I have my reasons, and they're my business," he said calmly. "Goodbye, Sansa."

She felt like he'd slapped her, the way Joffrey used to, and her vision blurred with alarming speed.

 _No,_ she decided then, slowly wiped the tears off her face and forced her mask into place as well. _No, that's not how you'll get your revenge, Petyr. I'm_ not _her. I won't let you get back at her through me._ She would not do him the favour of falling apart for him. She could put herself together for another minute.

 _Anger is so much easier to endure than hurt, isn't that right, darling?_

"Fine. Goodbye," she said, her voice as cold and sharp as she could make it, and left the house with no idea where to go, taking nothing with her but the dress she was wearing and the handbag she'd packed for a few hours at a café.

Her vision blurred with tears and nearly drowned in sunlight, she stumbled out of the driveway practically blind, and some part of her marvelled at the tacky poetry there would be about some poor oblivious person hitting her with their car in this moment. Oh, wouldn't the tabloids have a field day about that…

The only thing that was actually surprising, the only thing she had never pictured, was that the betrayal felt so _personal._ She'd always thought the worst would be the fact she was all alone in the world once more, she'd thought the worst thing would be all those memories rushing back, but it wasn't, and that was upsetting.

She had never expected the pain to actually come from losing _him._

"Sansa?"

There was Willas, climbing out of a cab that stood waiting on the side of the road. She'd forgotten all about him.

"Are you okay?"

"No," she whispered, too softly for him to hear, then forced a smile on her face and answered "yes", louder this time.

He looked deeply worried now.

She'd probably overdone the smile.

"C'mon," he said after a moment, putting a wobbly smile on his lips as well, "let's get away from here."

She didn't object.

(He didn't look surprised at all, though that thought came to her much later.

She asked him, and learned what she'd practically known already – that he'd known, days before she had, that Petyr had called him, _told_ him to come and pick her up once he was done with her.

That Petyr had told him, in these exact words, _take care of her, Tyrell. And make sure she doesn't come back.)_


	5. Part Four

_***A/N***_ I've recently rediscovered my Youtube addiction and if any of you guys knows Phil Lester, you will probably see where I went with Willas (though I did only use some traits, I think it's kinda weirdly obvious...? Let me know!).  
Do I need a disclaimer for that? Well, if I do, **I am against slavery and therefore do not own any human being, least of all that ray of sunshine.**

* * *

 **-PART FOUR-**

 _"It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. […] It understood you just so far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey."_

* * *

SANSA

[a week to the election]

.

Willas's flatmate had moved out a few months back, and at his bidding and because she didn't really have anywhere else left to go, she stayed in his room. Willas kept telling her he didn't need it and that she could do what she wanted with it to make it feel a little more lived-in, but she didn't have the energy for it, and anyway she didn't want to. If she made herself at home, that would mean she would stay, and as much as she loved Willas – she didn't think she could bear that.

Willas Tyrell was probably the nicest guy she'd ever met in her life. His covering every window sill in pot plants that he religiously took care of appeared to be the only downside of living with him; he cooked for her even though he was terrible at it, made silly jokes to try and make her laugh and constantly made an effort to be cheerful and smiling around her so he wouldn't weigh her down any further. With the amount of effort he made, one would believe _he_ had invaded _her_ life and _her_ flat, and not vice versa. It had taken Sansa over four hours to convince him to share the rent with her.

Whenever he left before she did, there was a post-it sticking to the fridge or the door, usually telling her when he'd be back and that there was still coffee left for her, or a slice of cake in the fridge.

She knew he was trying to make her feel better, but all it ever did was make her feel utterly _terrible._

Willas expected nothing in return for what he did for her, which was driving her crazy. It had been too long since someone had taken care of her like that, back when she'd been innocent and sweet and deserving of such kindness; and every second of it now reminded her how little of that person was left.

She had changed so much, grown so much colder and sadder and more selfish, and she merited none of his time and effort. It pained her to see someone so good and pure waste so much of his life trying to fix something that couldn't ever be repaired, and the fact she couldn't find a way to make him stop made it all the more tragic.

.

[election day]

.

He was all over the news, of course he was. He'd won. It wasn't like this came as much of a surprise to her, really, and all she would have needed to do to escape him was switch off the television, but she couldn't. All she could bring herself to do was turn down the volume until the room went completely quiet and the bright lights on the screen chased each other without another sound.

His smile was smooth, convincing, no edges. Perfectly reliable - and nothing like the way he used to smile at her. It was only when she pictured that crooked, dirty smile that she understood what this was really about.

That smile, just like the occasional coke, like the scar across his ribs, like her mother's ghost, was part of a skin he'd almost shed. It was part of _Petyr,_ the short skinny boy with the worn clothes and that faint Irish accent he'd inherited from his drunk father; Petyr who'd been so desperately in love with the future that seemed to surround girls like Cat Tully like a halo.

Petyr who'd been so vulnerable.

He'd been useful enough when he could show him to the working class voters, but now he was prime minister. Petyr was not cold enough for that, so he'd had to go. This was Littlefinger's hour of glory.

And Sansa didn't belong into that life, either.

The most ridiculous thing about it, though, was that all that just proved one thing, one thing she hadn't dared to believe all those months, something that no one had ever thought or would ever think now that she'd been so unceremoniously dumped – it proved that he loved her.

Loved her so much that he feared she would keep Petyr alive when Littlefinger needed him dead and buried.

And if he was so scared of that… well, then the way she knew him, she was very lucky indeed to be still breathing at all. It would have been so much safer to get her into an "accident".

She buried her head in her hands and willed herself not to shed a tear. Goodness gracious, wasn't she just _sick,_ crying over a man who she _knew_ had contemplated killing her just to secure his power.

"There," she muttered venomously, staring at the screen, "that's what you've made of me, darling. I think I'm almost as twisted as you are. There was no bloody need to be so scared." The anger was almost suffocating her, and the tears that welled up in her eyes were only making it worse. "I'm not Mum's little girl anymore."

All of a sudden, she felt terribly ashamed of herself, and the grief overwhelmed her all over again. _What have you done, Sansa? They were always so proud of you. What have you done?_

"I don't know if there's anything left of her at all," she whispered, her voice cracking, failing. "You bastard. I was all that was left of my family. How could you take that away, too?"

Willas found her there almost an hour later, still sobbing. The silent news the only source of light.

.

[four weeks past the election]

.

"I'm alone," she'd told him when he'd asked why she looked so sad. "Everyone is gone, my father, my mother, my sister, my brothers, even Jon and Lady. I'm just all alone."

 _"If there's something in your life that you can't live with, you have to get rid of it,_ " Petyr had said when she'd told him the same thing. _"And if you can't make it go away, you have to find a perspective from which that thing doesn't look so bad anymore."_ Sansa had just frowned and asked what the hell that was supposed to tell her, and he'd smiled. _"It's supposed to tell you that you have to learn to live with it. And I know you will."_

But Willas had just repeated the same lie, the same empty words that everyone used, "you're not alone, Sansa".

He'd failed her test.


	6. Part Five

**-PART FIVE-**

 _"_ _It was all very careless and confused. They were careless people, Tom and Daisy – they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made…"_

* * *

SANSA

[eight weeks past the election]

.

"You know, I wish I could save you, Sansa," he said very softly. "I really do. And I like to tell myself that I've tried, but in the end, I guess I just can't."

She just looked at him, didn't react, because she had no idea how. He looked so hurt, and she knew that was her fault, but she'd said sorry so often and it wasn't enough.

The old Sansa would have loved him, that was the worst thing. Before her family had died, before everything had become so horrible and complicated, he would have been everything she ever wanted – or well, everything she ever _needed_. He would have made her so happy.

But now, she just felt empty and he couldn't help her at all.

"Here," Willas said and handed her some thirty-odd pounds. "Call a cab. The address would be Downing Street now, wouldn't it?"

She stared at the money, then nodded. "Yeah, I suppose it would be."

"I know he's who made you this miserable, Sansa, but I think if anyone can make you feel better again, and I really can't believe I'm saying that, it's probably him as well."

"Willas, I-"

"Really, you should go," he said quietly, throwing her a sad smile.

"I'm sorry for all the trouble you've had-"

"It's okay, honestly. I'll be fine. Go."

For some reason his guards let her pass, just like that, as if Petyr Baelish had been careless enough not to tell them she wasn't to be let near him at all cost. She felt almost stupid, ringing his doorbell like that, after two whole months. He was the bloody prime minister now, and she had no idea what she would even tell him, and on top of everything, it was almost _midnight_.

It was so foolish. She felt very much like her old self.

Following a sudden, irrational hope it would make her feel more like the Sansa of last summer, she fished her lipstick out of her bag and put on a layer of bloody red, checking her reflection in the glass of the front door. _There, that's better._

"Ma'am, have you seen the _time-_ " was the first thing she heard when someone opened the door.

"Yes, but knowing Mr Baelish, he'll be awake for at least another three hours, and I really need to talk to him." The man opened his mouth to say something else, but she cut him off. "I know he's awfully busy, but this can't wait, I'm sorry."

"Alright," he said sourly. "Wait here. I'll ask him to get the door."

Sansa sighed and nodded. "Thank you," she muttered, but he'd already slammed the door in her face.

Nothing happened for so long Sansa was starting to wonder if she was still going to stand there at dawn, but then finally someone opened the door again.

"Is this a social call?" he asked drily. "At eleven thirty... But I appreciate the gesture."

"I forgot how funny you are," she gave back just as sardonically. "Petyr, I need to talk to you."

"As I just pointed out, it's kind of late." He _did_ look tired, and the sight of it almost surprised her. She wasn't used to seeing him worn, but then again this was probably just another mask, another face he'd put on because it was what the world expected to see.

"I know."

He sighed and leaned against the doorframe. "What do you want?"

"You," she replied flatly, because what else was there to say?

For a split second, there was a look of complete shock on his face, then he said very slowly: "Sansa, sweetling. Do you really think I told Willas to get you away from me just so you come to ring my doorbell in the middle of the night?"

"Well, did _you_ really think you could tell _Willas_ to get me away from you and he could _keep_ me away?" she asked, somewhat insulted.

"You know, I should have known that the one thing I did for anyone other than myself in the past few years would come right back to get on my nerves," he gave back drily, probably hoping it would hurt her.

It didn't. It made her _furious_. "Oh, of course. I'm such an ungrateful brat, right? I mean, I should _thank_ you, for plucking me off the street, dragging me to parties, getting me drunk, telling me countless bizarre political theories and disturbing secrets and… and luring me into your bed and corrupting my every bloody thought and then putting me in a car with some young reporter and telling him to get me the hell away from you. How _kind_ of you, Petyr," she hissed, shaking her head.

"I'm not good for you, Sansa," he replied in a cold voice, "you shouldn't be around me and I care enough for you to see to that. So yes, you should be thankful, sweetling."

"I tried, okay?" she snapped, her voice louder than she'd intended. "I tried to make the best of it. And after two weeks I was still miserable and I felt like I was trying on someone else's life and it didn't fit, but I told myself it would get better. I _waited,_ and I tried to ignore how he tried to keep everything away from me for my own protection until I had nothing to fill my days with at all, I waited and waited, but after over two months even Willas had to admit that _nothing_ 's changed. Every moment with him just reminded me of that person I was, and how much I wish I could still be her, and I was trying so hard to tell myself it's my fault," she said angrily, her voice tense, "but you don't get to do this to me. You don't get to mess me up and take away everything that I was before everyone died and then leave me alone and feel like a sodding _hero._ Okay, I won't let you come out of this so unscathed. It's unfair. Do you really think you can make me into this cold, calculating, manipulative person and then just hand me over to somebody as pure and wonderful as Willas Tyrell and somehow it'll all work out?" She could feel angry tears burning in her eyes and she didn't even care to blink them away. "Think you were being _noble,_ Petyr? Well, maybe you were, but as always, that good bit in you took over just a little bit too late. Yes, you're not good for me, and yes, you _ruined_ me, but the damage's done, okay, it's too bloody late to save me."

He looked confused and a little shocked about her outburst, and surprisingly made no attempt to interrupt her.

"You made this of me, Petyr, and now you're gonna have to live with it, because who else is gonna put up with me this way?"

For a while, he just looked at her, his face half-hidden in the shadows, then he sighed and pushed himself off the wall. "I'm sorry that's how you perceive things," he said in a dead voice, throwing her a smile that looked rather hollow. "But my point still stands, Sansa – I was wrong to drag you into this world of mine, the drinks, the backstabbing, the company I keep… it was all too much and I see now I should have never done this to you."

She wanted to argue, but he continued before she could say anything.

"Besides… I'm standing on very thin ice at the moment, and distraction, however lovely, is the very last thing I need."

It sounded a little like a text he'd learned by heart.

"You don't have to be scared of me, Petyr," she said softly, suddenly certain she knew what this was about. "I won't hold you back. I'm through with being the good girl, I learned my lesson. Being a saint got me nowhere. I got your back, and even if it's true you had my aunt murdered… I still got your back. I don't care."

"You _don't care?_ " he repeated incredulously. "You're Sansa Stark, of course you care. Who would you be if you didn't?"

She shrugged, a sad smile tugging at her lips. "Okay, it's not that I don't _care,_ but… I'll live with it."

"You think you can live with that? Don't think you've seen me at my worst, Sansa. I get far worse than this, and I've done a few things that I doubt you could handle."

"I think I could sooner live with your sins than with my demons," she replied slowly. "I've had enough of being alone. I've had enough of pretending I didn't dream of cutting a few throats, I've had _enough_ of trying to be a better person than I am, and most of all I've had enough of everyone pretending I was some stupid breakable little girl. You're the only one who never gave me that feeling, the only one who never made me feel like I was a failure or an embarrassment or _weak._ And believe me, I could put up with a lot of things to stop feeling that way."

Suddenly, a faint smile flickered across his features. "You don't need to tell me that, sweetling, I _invented_ that feeling."

For a while, she just eyed him, trying to figure out what was going on behind those greyish green eyes, then she asked softly: "So, can I come in?"

Again, that smile tugged at his lips, but then it was gone. "Not unless you mean it. I need to know you'll be by my side no matter what, I can't let anyone into my life who might stab me in the back one day or another." His voice was quiet, cold, but his eyes were dark and hungry. "You step through this door, you're mine."

His cold voice made her hesitate for a second, then she walked past him, a hand on his shirt collar. "Well, I don't think I'll need to make terms here," she said quietly, a smile playing around her lips now, "you can be possessive all you want, it just proves one thing."

The spark in his eyes might have been mockery, but it might as well have been desire – it was hard to tell, in the dim light, and his proximity messing with her head.

"And what might that be, sweetling?"

She stepped closer, still smiling, and tightened her grip around the fine cotton, partly to pull him closer, partly to steady herself. The last time they'd been this close had probably been the last time they'd slept with each other; their shins, their shoulders, their hands were all touching and Sansa knew she had _all_ the desired effects on him.

"Think you need to tell me I belong to you, Petyr," she murmured, their lips almost touching, "well, _you're_ _mine,_ you've done nothing but prove that." It was hard to keep her eyes on his, and even harder to keep track of what she was saying. But, as sick as that probably was, she had missed those power plays as much as she'd missed him. "Keep that in mind when you play your little games."

He didn't reply – he probably thought it chivalry to let her win this round – just put his arms around her and kissed her.


	7. Epilogue

**-EPILOGUE-**

 _"_ _If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away."_

* * *

WILLAS

[eight months past the election]

.

 _The announcement of Prime Minister Petyr Baelish's engagement was published in the London Times yesterday. Baelish and socialite Sansa Stark, who turns twenty years old this month, have been together for almost two years, although they were briefly separated after Baelish's election last year…_

It was his twentieth re-read of his text and he was trying to somehow get it to stop sounding so completely indifferent, but it turned out Willas couldn't even find any bitter words to comment on this atrocity. He had absolutely nothing more to say on the subject, and so his so-called tabloid article read like a political statement from Baelish's office. Maybe this literary feat would finally get him fired.

Whatever faith he'd had in the world had been blown away by these news – he couldn't understand how such an innocent, pure person like Sansa could be so completely incapable, so utterly _unwilling,_ to let herself be saved.

He couldn't understand how Baelish had got to all this power just with a handful of lies and a few strings pulled.

Willas didn't understand, and he'd quite simply given up trying to. It was the only way he could live with it.

He wasn't cut out for this job, he thought, buried his head in his hands and wondered if "It couldn't be prevented" made for an acceptable title.


End file.
